


A Princess in Theory

by rebel_diamond



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, He's gotta turn Lacey into Belle basically, Modern Day Royal AU, Modern Royal AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-05-13 08:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14745524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebel_diamond/pseuds/rebel_diamond
Summary: Raised outside of her country, she’s about to find out that she’s a real-life princess. Political adviser Gold is hired to turn this princess in theory into a real royal - without falling in love with her. *Nominated 2019 TEAs Best First Meeting





	1. Chapter 1

_A bar in Sydney, Australia_ **  
**

Her friends called her alter-ego “Lacey.” It was her persona when she wanted to put on something that showed her bra straps, go out, and damn the consequences. In class at Charles Sturt University, she was very much a Belle. She studied and got good grades. But when somebody pissed her off, “Lacey” came out and all bets were off. It was also a convenient excuse for when Belle made bad choices. If she got sloppy drunk or hooked up with the wrong guy, she could blame it on “Lacey.”

The death of her mother after a long battle with cancer gave Lacey a months-long respite. But Belle finally felt like she was capable of smiling again. So she’d dove into the back of her closet and returned to the favorite dive bar near campus as Lacey. Surrounded by her uni friends and the familiar stench of stale beer, Belle knew she’d made the right choice. Even her heels clinging to the sticky floor as she bent low over the pool table was comforting.  

What was new since the last time she’d been here was the man sitting at the bar.

“Check out Daddy,” her friend jerked her head across the pool table at the bar.

He stuck out, and not because he was over twenty years older than the average bar patron there. But because he dressed like he was going to a wedding. Belle had already noticed him because “Daddy” had been staring at her all night. She’d given him her back most of the night because she knew it showed her off to her best advantage. She laughed as she threw back shots, making herself appear approachable. She even glanced over her shoulder and gave him the patented Lacey come-hither stare.  

Still, he refused to be lured off his bar stool. But he didn’t take his eyes off her either. They followed her like he was preying upon her but waiting to strike. He didn’t come over and use a pickup line. Or approach her from behind and grid himself into her like half the sloppy guys here would. He sat stoically at the bar, every once in a while savoring his drink and licking his lips. Being lured rather than attacked appealed to her.

It wasn’t anything specific about him that drew her. Taken in pieces, he wasn’t anything extraordinary. His thin lips would be regrettable if he didn’t know how to use them to his best advantage. His nose looked sculpted rather than born. And his graying temples normally wouldn’t get him the time of day from her. But his longer hair hinted at another side of him. And every part of his fifty piece suit was black, giving off a dangerous vibe. The glass in front of him was guaranteed to be filled with the good stuff they didn’t bother advertising to the twenty-somethings. Overall, his demeanor exuded sexy and expensive. A psychologist would probably say her attraction to him had something to do with never knowing her father. Psychologists could bugger off.

She bit her lip, not bothering to be coy in her perusal of him.

“Hey, ‘Lacey,’” one of her friends snapped. “For fuck's sake, it’s been your turn for the past five minutes!”

She scanned the room and considered her options. If anything was going to happen tonight, it was going to be with him. He was never going to approach her while her rowdy friends encircled her. It was up to her to approach her mystery man before he disappeared. Taking any chance of her getting a decent shag with him. She handed her pool cue off to another friend, ignoring their shouts of protest.

She strutted to the bar, purposefully not looking at him. She glanced around her before landing on his tumbler. “How’s your drink?” she asked in offhandedly.

He inspected the amber liquid in his glass. “Utter swill.”

His response was so unexpected and his delivery so dry that she laughed. So he was used to the better things in life, she’d been right about that. Judging by the accent, he was also a tourist. He was probably in the city for business, which explained the suit.

She plucked a drinks menu off the bar advertising the dirt cheap specials and waved it at him. “Well, we don’t come here for the ambiance.”

She peeked down at the hand hovering over his bourbon glass. It was possible he may have moved the ring to his right hand but he was, for all intents and purposes, unmarried. Single. In Sydney overnight. He was a one night stand waiting to happen.

“What are you here for then?” she asked, already suspecting the answer.   

“I’m looking for someone.” He searched the crowd behind her but his penetrating gaze ultimately returned to her.

He didn’t specify who. Which also explained the bar he was in. It was favored by students from the city. So he was trolling for younger talent, as it was. Whatever. “Lacey” wasn’t judging. She also wasn’t opposed. He’d be a nice intermission from the selfish uni boys and their trashy apartments.

She leaned on the bar, folding her arms under her breasts to accentuate them. Admittedly, she had the type of rack that looked better with her clothes off, but she could work with what she had. She gave him a slow seductive smile. “Could I be that someone?”

His eyes ticked to her cleavage before focusing somewhere on the bar. He gave her a soft smirk. “Perhaps.”

“You’re not from here,” she observed.   

“You’re right.” He paused as if hesitating to tell her something. “I’m from Avonlea.” He looked at her expectantly.

“That doesn’t sound like a city in Scotland.”

He chuckled and raised his glass to her. “Clever girl.” He said it like she’d done something to please him exceedingly. The sound of his low burr made her rub her thighs together.

“Lacey,” she supplied. “Do you want to buy this clever girl a drink?”

He gestured to the seat next to him and then to the bartender who, relieved to see real money, waited on him intently.

Her friends gave her bizarre looks across the bar. All of them asking what was she doing with the old guy. She waved them off and when he saw her gesturing madly, masked it by fluffing her hair. He grinned behind his glass.    

“So, Avonlea,” she tried getting them back on track. “What country is that in?”

He smiled ruefully, “It is a country. A very small one.”

“Oh, sorry.” She didn’t mean to offend him by making his home sound inconsequential. In her experience, nothing turned off a guy more than if you didn’t make him feel big and important. “I don’t get a lot of geography in the Information and Library Studies program,” she shrugged.

“No offense taken. I’m only there at the moment for work.”

She didn’t miss the “at the moment”. He was definitely a guy who travels a lot who was looking for a few good memories of Sydney. She wouldn’t mind providing him with some.

The bartender placed a drink in front of her. “What would I know this mysterious Avonlea from?”

He looked at her with interest. “It’s queen recently died.”

That made her think about her mother and she sobered up a bit. She felt Lacey retreat and Belle, with all her complicated feelings, rising to the surface. She trampled them down.  

“Its monarch is getting older,” he continued, “and there’s no heir in line to the throne.”

“So what happens now?” Despite the number of drinks in her system, her curiosity piqued.  She was momentarily derailed from her goal of getting him to take her home. Or at least mess around with her in the back alley.  

“The king has a daughter. But she grew up outside the country. Many people don’t believe she would be an effective ruler.”

She felt indignant on behalf of all women. “She could learn,” she interjected.  

He nodded slowly, “Yes, I believe she could.”

She huffed. “How hard could it be? Aren’t queens all pomp and circumstance and no power nowadays anyway?”

He considered her. “A queen has influence. That can be more powerful than the title itself.”

She considered Queen Elizabeth II. Owning all the swans in the River Thames is its own kind of power, she supposed. But so is appointing Lords, who then sit in Parliament. Also being able to fire the entire Australian government.  

“Library Studies,” he interrupted her reverie. “Your parents must be very proud.”

“My mother was,” she admitted before she could restrain herself. _Shut up, Belle_. She wasn’t here to mourn her mother. She was here to forget for a while. “Before she died,” she was forced to fill in. “I never knew my father.”

He leaned across the bar. “Maybe you did and you just don’t remember.”

That was an odd thing to say. She shook her head. This conversation was getting too deep. Her parents? Royalty? What did any of this have to do with getting laid?

She slid off her bar stool. “So,” she asked him silkily, “am I the girl you were looking for?”

His eyes searched her face. “I think so,” he told her.

She boldly placed her hands on his knees. She felt silky wool under her fingertips instead of the usual denim or nylon. He glanced down at where her hands rested, then back at her, as if daring her to continue. She smiled. That was all the invitation she needed.

He let her spread his legs so she could step between them. It wasn’t Axe spray, but a spicy and peppery musk she breathed in. Everything about him was new and intimidating. She chased the high it gave her, enjoying pushing through the uncertainty and falling over the edge into the unknown. “Let me help you be sure.”

She leaned in and something in her chest flared when he opened his mouth to meet hers. The noise of the bar dissolved when she felt him return the pressure. She wasn’t disappointed. She knew she wouldn’t be. Alluringly, instead of immediately grabbing at her ass, he let the kiss be just a kiss. He explored the nuances of her mouth, instead of rushing on to the next thing.  

She felt his strong hands slide to her own now on his thighs. They grazed up her arms to rest on her shoulders. He didn’t pull her off him, but when she parted to take a breath, he held her there. Her eyes fluttered open. She didn't take it as a rejection because he leaned his forehead against hers. Which felt somehow more intimate than the kiss they'd shared.

“That’s not a good idea.” Even over the crowd, she heard the timbre of his voice.

He should really try telling her that when she didn’t feel him stirring against her stomach. “Why not?” His arms blocked hers from wrapping around his neck like she wanted to.

He swallowed like he was struggling to remember a reason. “Because you’re going to learn, very soon, that I’m not the one for you.” He dropped his hands

She frowned, taking a step back. “Why don’t you let me decide that?” she challenged.

He sighed deeply. “Because there’s going to be a lot of people judging the choices you make in your life from now on, Belle.”

An alarm rang in her head. How did he know her real name? She told him her name was Lacey. She was sure of it. Even her friends called her Lacey on nights they went out.  

She took another step back. “How do you know my name?” Oh god, had they met before? Was she inadvertently trying to bang the father of one of her friends?  

“Everyone in Avonlea knows your name, Princess.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What did you just call me?” Was this, like, a role play? With her cast as the prissy princess and he the poor commoner? Of all the names she’d ever been called in bed, “princess” had never been one of them. Most guys learned everything they knew about sex from porn and liked it rough. They got off by yanking her hair and calling her every derogatory name in the lexicon. “Princess” she could roll with.

“I’m a political consultant,” he told her evenly. “I help get people elected. Or put into power, as your case may be.” His tone was completely conversational now. Like they hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes flirting and sharing the hottest kiss of her life. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Princess.” Was that illicit undertone back in his voice, or was she imagining it?  

If this was a made-up story, the look on his face was deadly serious. So maybe he wasn’t a sexy Daddy after all. Just a complete nutter. She was a mix of confusion and thwarted lust. But looking at him, at the promise of what she thought they could be together, she had to make sure.

“If this is some sort of role play,” she told him, laughing nervously, “you’ve really thought it through.”

He gave her a condescending look over his glass. “I don’t need to play pretend to get off, Princess.” The sexy, low burr that had made her thighs quiver had returned. She discreetly rubbed her legs together in an effort to get some relief. Of course he didn’t role play. He looked exactly like the kind of man who could enjoy a woman’s body - no matter the shape or size - for what it was and give and take pleasure as he pleased.   

He pushed another drink towards her. She was surprised to see an empty one in front of her. She hadn’t realized that at some point in their conversation she’d downed the first one.

She took a mouthful from the fresh glass. That’s what alcohol was supposed to do, right, steady your nerves? “I don’t believe you.”

“Well,” he swiveled on his bar stool to face her, “here wouldn’t be the most appropriate place to prove it.”

She made a face. _Smart shit_. “You know what I mean. You show up in a bar and tell me I’m a princess.” A hysterical laugh escaped her throat. Because this was a joke, obviously. One of her shit friends had put him up to it. This guy was probably homeless and that wasn’t even his suit. _Then why does it fit so well?_ No, this was ridiculous. She should get off this bar stool and go back to the pool tables right now. One of them was probably live streaming this on Facebook while they spoke. They’d laugh their asses off at her expense for months.

“Every little girl’s dream,” he baited her back into the fantasy.  

“Not mine,” she poured cold water on this insane idea. She’d never dreamed of a knight in shining armor riding a giant steed into her life to save her. She could save herself. Her mother had taught her that. She stared at the wood grain of the bar, willing this night to go back. To rewind several hours and have this evening turn out different. To be in this strange man’s bed, forgetting the loss of her mother, not having this ridiculous talk that was making her eyes well up.   

He reached into his jacket pocket, the same one she’d been hoping had a condom or two in it mere minutes before, and tossed a small stack of papers onto the bar. When she didn’t move to pick them up, _why bother drawing out this charade?,_ he spread them out in front of her. Instead of looking at the documents he lined up one by one in front of her, she focused on his hands. Even his fingers moved with confident, masculine control. Too soon he sat back, removing her fetishizing distraction and forcing her attention on what he’d laid out. They were photo after photo of her mother, decades younger but unmistakable. In them she was dressed in voluminous ball gowns, wearing crowns, and smiling for the photographer. Belle knew her mother to wear nothing but maxi dresses and waist length hair. In all these photos her hair was curled and pinned to the top of her head. Strangely it wasn’t her mother’s eyes or her smile that solidified her identity in Belle’s mind. It was her posture. Her mum had always had flawless posture. Shoulders pulled back, chin forward, and ankles perfectly crossed at the ankle, never the knee.

“What are these from?” She would say they were from an elaborate fancy dress party, except there were so many photos in so many different dresses. Was her mother a former model and never told her?

Instead of answering, he slide another photograph in front of her. A formal wedding portrait. Her mother was sitting on a red couch in a fluffy white grown that pooled at her feet, obviously a wedding dress. Next to her was a man in a formal jacket, blue sash, and a gold-wire aiguillette. His chest was covered in medals.

“What did your mother tell you about your father?” he probed gently.

Was he actually suggesting the man sitting next to her mother was her father? She shook her head, “Nothing and I didn’t care. We were good on our own.” And they had been. Even when her mother had cancer they’d take road trips to Uluru and to the ocean. All those great adventures that had come to an abrupt, too-soon end. She wiped away the wetness forming at the edges of her eyes with her knuckle.

He slid a newspaper clipping on top of the photographs. It announced the birth of Arabella Margaux Colette, Princess of Avonlea. There was her mother, smiling next to that same man, this time holding a newborn. Next was a birth certificate with the mother listed as Princess Colette and father Prince Maurice. She knew her mother as Colleen, not Colette, yet the evidence was in front of her. As was the birth date. All babies looked the same, but the month, day, and year of Arabella Margaux Colette’s birth matched Belle’s.

“I don’t understand,” she heard her own voice, far away. The raucous bar noise morphed into a faraway din. The text in front of her blurred. She was going from wanting to blow this guy to getting sick on his lap.

He leaned in and spoke close to her ear. “Do you want to get out of here? Take this conversation elsewhere?”  

A laugh that sounded more like a sob bubbled from her lips. Ironic he was asking her that now, but for a vastly different reason than she’d originally anticipated. She vaguely registered him scooping up all the thin little sheets that had just made her head explode, standing up, and ushering her out of her seat and through the front door. Was it a good idea to go with this man? She barely knew him, if at all. She also didn’t even know his name. Yet, not the most shady of circumstances she’d ever gone home with someone under.   

She was guided into the backseat of a town car, momentarily confused when he slid in beside her. A tall man with a shaved head, also impeccably dressed, sat in the driver’s seat.

“To the Princess’ apartment, Dove.”

Nothing else over the course of this bizarre evening had alarmed her as much as that last sentence. She sat up in her seat, ready to jump out of the car, but the bar, and her friends, were already disappearing out the back window.

“How the hell do you know where I live?”

The guy whose name she _still_ didn’t know, and felt kind of stupid asking for now, gave her a look more pitying than rapist-murderer-y. She had her phone in her pocket, she could call the police. But despite the fact that he’d basically just kidnapped her with the assistance of a man four times her size, she still wasn’t reading _threat_ from this guy.   

“I told you, Princess-”

She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers gripping the leather seat. “Can we, just,” her voice was loud, “drop the ‘Princess’ crap?” She was barely holding on to her sanity at the moment. If he called her ‘Princess’ one more time she was going to lose her shit.

“Very well,” he told her calmly, like _she_ was the crazy one. “What would you prefer I call you.”

“My name,” she ground out. “Belle French.”

“Alright, Miss French,” he replied placatingly. “Considering your mother told you nothing about your origins, I can understand this comes as a great shock for you.” He sounded coldly professional now. Like she’d come into his bank asking for a loan. As if she hadn’t felt the outline of his cock through his pants ten minutes ago.  

“So even if what you say is true,” she launched in at him. “What, I’m, like, a trust fund baby now? I read the tabloids, royals lead normal lives and have jobs. They just have to show up on the Queen’s birthday and stand on a balcony and wave.” Maybe this wasn’t the crisis situation she had thought. So what if her mother was a princess? So were a lot of people’s. Her life wouldn’t have to change drastically. She could put on a floofy dress and wave using only her wrist a couple times a year if it made paying school tuition easier.

He chuckled softly. “Not quite, Miss French. What I said before was true. Your father is the King of Avonlea. He’s getting older. You are his only heir. If you don’t return to Avonlea and take the throne, Parliament will decide to whom to offer the crown, creating a political crisis.” He leaned across the backseat. “So you see, Miss French,” he made sure by his tone that she knew he thought her name was ridiculous, “it’s going to be of the utmost importance that you ‘show up’ to the Queen’s birthday party because that Queen...will be you.”  

She shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why now? If I’m so important, why hasn’t my father been searching for me for years?”

He sat back in his seat. “Who says he hasn’t?”

That shut her up. The idea that she had a father out in the world. One that actually wanted her. She’d assumed her whole life he wanted nothing to do with them, so she’d wanted nothing to do with him. If this was true, the assumption she’d been operating under her entire life had just been turned on its head. She pictured the man in the fancy dress coat. He’d seemed happy enough to have her in his life in the photo announcing her birth.

Moments later Dove came to a stop in front of her walk-up. She didn’t bother looking over her shoulder, she felt the man from the bar hovering behind her up the stairs and through the door to her apartment. Once she was over the threshold, she felt like she could breathe again. She loved the bohemian apartment her and her mum had built together. It was full of mismatched furniture, tapestries, and knick-knacks they’d collected on their travels. Seashells and scarves and photos covered the tables and walls.

He was studying a collage of photos that covered the entirety of one wall. They recounting all the trips she’d taken with her mother and her friends. Beach weekends, a trip to the Great Wall of China, crashed weddings. It felt like a violation to have him here, with his unremitting judgement, in their sacred space.

She stood in the middle of the room. “So you found me, now what? Do I need a lawyer?”

“I am a lawyer,” he told her distractedly, zeroing in on the oldest photos on the wall, one of her mother holding her in the hospital. He slowly reached into his jacket pocket and extracted out a photo of his own. They matched exactly, expect his included a man - her father - who had been neatly shorn out of the image on her wall. He seemed satisfied with his discovery, so he turned back to her. “There’s a charter plane waiting at the airport ready to return you to Avonlea.” He sensed her hesitation. “Let’s not play games, Miss French. Your mother was an only child. Her parents are dead. You have no ties here. What do you have to lose?”

 _Everything_. This apartment was the last vestige of her mother. Leaving it meant going somewhere her mum, for whatever reason, had taken her away from. If these documents were true, why had her mother left with her to Australia and never told her? Following this man felt like a betrayal of her mother, the only family she’d ever known and her best friend.

A thought occurred to her. “What if I renounce?”

He shook his head, “There’s no ‘renouncing’ your place in the line of succession. You can renounce or abdicate once you’re reigning Queen, but one problem at a time, shall we?”

“What if I don’t want to be Queen?” A hysteria hijacked her voice. He wasn’t going to take her away from her mother, no way. “No one has to know you were here. You can just go back and tell him you didn’t find me. I’ll pay you-”

What was she talking about? She didn’t have any money. Her shoulders relaxed and she morphed effortlessly into seductive Lacey, the role that made her forget her problems and got her whatever she wanted, or at least buried any disappointment if she didn’t. She hadn’t imagined it, there was something between them. She wasn’t unskilled. She could make him forget all about this Princess nonsense. “Or,” she sashayed to where he stood by the door. He didn’t lean into her, but he didn’t move away either. She smoothed one hand over the silk of his tie, starting at the top. “We could do something else instead.”

He caught her hand right before it disappeared under his jacket. Instead of being turned on, he looked angry. “Giving out sexual favors in exchange for what you want is beneath you.” She didn’t know if he meant her royal station or in general. Either way, he’d been happy enough to be on the receiving end of her ministrations earlier in the night.  

Her voice returned to its normal octave. Her eyes narrowed. Like hell if he was going to slut shame her. “Then why did you kiss me?”

“You,” he pointed at her, “kissed me,” he enunciated slowly.  

“But you didn’t stop me,” she goaded. “You knew who I was and you did it anyway.”

She didn’t miss his face reddening before he turned his back on her. Was it anger? Regret? Guilt?

“Pack a bag,” he spoke to the door, “the plane is waiting.” Well, anger was definitely in there. “Pack light. Everything at the palace will be provided for you.”

 _Palace_. This was insane. She wasn’t actually going to get on a plane with a stranger and leave the country was she?  

She crossed her arms, jutting her hip to the side. Her mother had always told her she was stubborn. Instead of chiding her for it, like most parents would, she’d encouraged it. “I haven’t agreed to go with you.”

He turned back to face her, with a look that told her that he could see her ‘stubborn’ and raise her a ‘relentless’. “You want answers about why your mother left? About your father? There’s only one way to get them, _Princess_.” She flinched. “Ignoring the truth won’t make it go away. Believe me,” he added, mostly to himself.  

He wasn’t wrong. Suddenly the apartment felt so empty. Soulless. And nothing was ever going to fill it again. This room or her heart, she realized. Her mother was gone. What did she have left? By going to Avonlea she’d get to know her father, at the very least, and learn the parts of her mother that she hadn’t shared with her. This room wasn’t her mother. She felt the presence of her mum, brave and adventurous, inside her. She’d miss her friends, but she’d get the satisfaction of shocking the hell out of them next time she texted. Belle was never going to go cliff jumping off Macquarie Pass with her mum ever again. But she was going to take this one giant, final leap with her mother by her side, even if she couldn’t see her any longer.

“Alight,” she answer softly.

“It’s forever, dearie,” he warned. Not that he was giving her a choice. Just the information that once she walked out that door with him, there was no use fighting him any longer.  

She jutted her chin out and met his eyes in a way she hoped would have made her mother proud. “I will go, with you, forever.”


	3. Chapter 3

Belle had been on a fair number of small planes in her life, but never anything like this. It was a private charter plane and the fanciest she’d ever seen. Instead of the traditional rows of seats, there were also tables and couches. Everything was white leather and dark wood with the Avonlea insignia tastefully peppered throughout.  

She hauled on board a knapsack filled with her most treasured belongings. Her photographs took up little room. With her mother’s tutelage, she’d mastered the art of traveling light a long time ago. When you’re forced to sift through everything in your apartment with a really impatient Scotsman standing right outside the door, it turns out very little holds sentimental value besides the memories. Even less had financial value. She and her mum had always scraped by with odd jobs and household goods bought at second hand stores. Belle had a small suitcase of clothes that Dove had carried on board. Afterward he’d disappeared up front with the crew, leaving her and the mystery man alone. 

“Does he fly the plane, too?” she asked, watching Dove disappear behind a door. She plopped down into a soft leather seat and buckled in for takeoff.

Mystery Man took a seat on the other side of the aisle. He seemed more relaxed now that they were on the plane. He even went so far as to give her a half-smile.  _ How generous _ . “No.” 

After a beat it was evident that was all he was going to say to her. He’d been surly and silent ever since she’d confronted him about kissing her. Luckily, her seat was within reach of the liquor cabinet.  _ Alcohol _ . Despite the safety restraint she was able to reach forward, unlatch the cabinet door, grab a bottle of vodka, a can of cranberry juice, and a glass. Her fingers glanced off the ice bucket so she’d have to drink it at room temperature, but she’d live. She sat back in her seat, satisfied with herself, and poured the two liquids into the glass. As she took a large gulp she felt eyes on her.  

She looked across the aisle. He’d watched her entire performance in complete silence. How can someone’s face be completely passive yet totally judgmental at the same time?

“I’m a nervous flier,” she deadpanned. In actuality, she was the opposite of a nervous flier. In fact, she relished the loss of control, it was liberating. She could tell he didn’t believe her, but she wasn’t bothered and went back to enjoying her drink. He could keep his judgments on his side of the plane. 

When they were up in the air, with the alcohol coursing through her body, she finally had the courage to ask some rather important questions. 

“Well, Mystery Man, what’s your name?” He slowly tore his gaze away from whatever he found so interesting out the window. “Or do I just keep calling you ‘you’?”  

“Gold.” He looked uncomfortable even sharing that much with her. This was a new interesting facet to her Mystery Man. While he was confident blowing up her life as she knew it, he was less inclined to be the focus of attention.  

“You got a first name?” 

“Mister.” 

She smiled in spite of herself. She always did appreciate sarcasm. “Alright, Gold, what’s your role in all of this? Besides stalking and kidnapping all in the name of shoving a tiara on my head?” She decided over her drink that she’d deal with the influx of batshit crazy information she’d received over the past several hours like some sort of cosmic joke. One that happened to be working in her favor thus far, considering the luxury plane and high end liquor.    

“I’ll be there to prepare you to become a princess and ultimately ascend the throne. There are innumerable protocols, rules, and social etiquette that you should have learned from birth but I will instruct you on over several weeks. Avonlea will want to welcome you home with a sort of pre-coronation event, officially welcoming you into the royal family. There will be an official celebration day, including a reception and ball.  I’ll stay until you’re settled, then I’ll move on.”

Protocols. That sounded hella boring. Hanging out this close to  _ Mr. Gold _ didn’t seem like too much of a chore through. He was bossy and disapproving, and, really, how was ‘Mr. Gold’ any better than ‘Mystery Man’? But she enjoyed turning the tables on him, of shocking and surprising him, and earning one of those half-smirks.  

“Sounds fun,” she responded, meaning anything but. Suddenly restless, she rose from her seat and poked around the plane, opening and closing cabinets at random. She found a television behind one and snacks in another. The whole time she explored, Gold alternated between reading the thick historical nonfiction book he’d boarded with, staring out the window, and leaning his head back with his eyes closed. Having run out of diversions, she meandered back to her seat, tossing a small bag of Cheetos onto the seat next to her. 

Before she could sit down, the plane hit turbulence. The bumps weren’t bad, by frequent flier standards, but navigating the rolls in an open area while in heels was. She crossed her left foot over her right, overcompensated, and tripped herself. As she tipped she clawed at empty air, hoping to grab the back of a seat. The plane steadied and her fall was abruptly cut short when she landed with an oof in one of the seats. His seat. Not just his seat but his literal lap. If she hadn’t already met his cock earlier in the evening, they were getting very well acquainted now. She could feel it pressed against her bottom, right through the virgin wool of his trousers. 

His cool passiveness from the bar was nowhere to be found. Beyond surprised to find her in his lap, he was unnerved. Even before they’d boarded the plane, he’d already started to pull away from her, to purposefully snuff out the spark that had been ignited between them at the bar. She had the sneaking suspicion that when they got to Avonlea he’d basically turn to ice. Which was a shame because they could have so much  _ fun _ together. 

He’d instinctively wrapped his arms around her when she’d landed. He didn’t look thrilled, but he wasn’t tossing her off him either. Instead, he quietly studied her face, then looked at her mouth. She felt his cock jump against her. This she knew. She didn’t need protocol lessons about this. 

She took his stunned silence as an opportunity. Instead of standing up, she leaned in closer. “When we land, I’ll officially be a princess.” 

He pressed his head hard against the seat but there was no escaping her. “You’re already a princess,” he breathed. “You always were.” 

“What I mean is,” she smoothed her hands up his lapels to his shoulders. She longed to thread her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. “I’m gonna have to be all proper and shit, yeah?” 

His body was stiff beneath her. “That would be preferable,” he choked out.  

She narrowed her gaze, “Preferable for who?” 

She closed the rest of the distance. She noticed again how, just at the bar, instead of puckering he opened his mouth to catch her lips with his. The drunken haze from the bar had worn off and he was still the best kisser she’d ever experienced. 

When she finally pulled back his eyes narrowed at the corners in a disapproving glare that didn’t reach his dick. “You’re going to need to stop doing that,” he told her in his cold professional voice. 

She didn’t buy it for a second. “Can’t I do whatever I want to now that I’m a princess? In fact,” she fingered his pocket square, “can’t I tell  _ you  _ what to do?” God, that would be fun. She pictured herself in a Marie Antoinette dress, demanding he drop to his knees. She’d order him to help remove her stockings. Then those hands of his would climb up under her dress, his fingers sliding up her calf, the back of her knee, her thigh. Her requesting him to keep going up and up and...

That got a half-smile out of him. He shook his head. “You’re not my princess, Princess. I’m not a citizen of Avonlea.” 

She slumped her shoulders and pouted. “Then what fun is this going to be?” She should probably get up now but she’d settled onto his lap quiet comfortably. 

He stared at her lower lip distractedly. “Not very much at all, I suspect,” he replied quietly, his eyes never leaving her mouth. 

Suddenly this whole princess thing didn’t seem like such a ripper of a situation. 

He must have seen the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “You’ll be fine, Princess.” It was sounding less like a title and more like a nickname now. He rubbed her back comfortingly. “I don’t think you’re at all who you pretend to be.” 

That sounded so sanctimonious she couldn’t let it pass. She sat up in his lap, turning to face him. “And who’s that?” 

“You forget, I’ve been watching you. You’re a party girl with your friends but when you’re alone you like to study and read,” he matter-of-factly encapsulated.  

Something about that neat summation of her life didn’t sit right with her. If he thought he was plucking her from some kind of drudgery and believed he could control her, he was mistaken. She liked her life, she enjoyed her time out with her friends. Her motivation for coming with him was finding out the truth about her mum, her father, and her family, no to escape her life. She quickly stood, knowing she was giving up her chance to join the Mile High Club, and went to sit across the aisle. 

She didn’t check to see if Gold looked confused her hurt from her abrupt exit. So what if he did? Let  _ him _ be confused for a change. She pulled her phone out as she sat down. She had a couple “Have fun!” and winky face messages from her friends. They’d assumed she’d gone home with the stranger from the bar and wouldn’t expect to hear from her until tomorrow. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. Her thumbs hovered over the keypad. How to explain what had happened to her over the last few hours? She’d send a group text later, explaining that her father, finding out about her mother’s death, had resurfaced. It was the truth. Once everyone calmed down about her existence, she’d head back to Australia or have her friends come visit Avonlea. Wherever the hell that was. She still knew so little about her birthplace.  

She finally darted a glance at Gold. He was looking out the window again. She could just ask him since he was such a know it all, but her pride wouldn’t let her. Instead, she Googled Avonlea. 

Thirty minutes and twenty tabs later, she was so immersed in her reading she didn’t notice him getting up. Or his blatantly looking over her shoulder on his way back to his seat. He smirked at her obvious absorption. 

“Well you’re not telling me anything!” she told him. 

He sat back down. “What did you learn?” 

She took a deep breath. “Avonlea is located near the  Southern Isles. The castle is located on the coast,” she recited. “They had a rocky history. The 1800’s are filled with them getting their butts kicked in various wars. But they made their money in the 1970’s and 80’s with the export of their natural resources. But what they’re best known for is being a melting pot. Lots of people immigrated there in the 70’s and 80’s with the economic boom. So tourists will notice all the different accents.” 

“You’ll fit in perfectly.”

She doubted it. She’ll be alone, is what she’ll be. Arriving in Avonlea meant joining a group of people who have been living together for thirty years or more. Christ, she missed her mum. “Can I-” she felt silly asking for them but the need was overwhelming. “May I see those photos again?” 

He slipped them out of his jacket and handed them across the aisle to her. 

Belle thought of all the parts of her life that she’d effectively gave up by getting on this plane. “What about school?” She only had a semester left. The idea of giving up college didn’t sit well with her. She was never going to be a librarian now, like she’d planned, but she’d taken a lot of pride in her schoolwork. He hadn’t been wrong about her in that sense.  

“We’ll arrange it so you can finish your studies online. You’re close to graduating anyway.” 

She nodded, not looking up at the images in front of her. She stared at the photos of her father, a complete stranger. She flipped through the rest slowly, relishing every image of her mother. If only she could have her mother with her, to tell her what to do and hold her hand. But she’d taught Belle to be an independent person who could think for herself, trust her gut, and make her own decisions. Was her parenting style purposeful? Did she know this day was going to come? When they were going to be found and Belle would be forced to make this very choice? 

“Please tell me you packed proper shoes or, better yet, a shirt with a back?” he nodded at the outfit she wore, the same one from the bar. “I’d prefer you not create a scandal the minute we get off the plane.” His face told her he was attempting to lighten the mood and bring her back from her far away musings. 

“You can’t tell me how to dress,” she shot back halfheartedly.  

He looked at her pityingly. “Princess, I believe you’ll find that not to be remotely true.” Then he smiled slowly, as if he was going to enjoy bossing her around. 

Her stomach dropped from nerves, the plane, that smile, or some combination.  

When they landed and the plane’s stairs were lowered, Belle hesitated at the top. She knew she had to descend but her feet wouldn’t move. Up to this point, she’d been on a fun, sexy adventure. Follow a mystery man to an exotic location - another journey to put in her scrapbook! But this was real. This was actually going to happen. Once she disembarked from this plane and stepped foot on her native soil, that was it. She was a princess here and her life was going to dramatically change forever. 

“Belle,” Gold’s voice was quiet behind her. 

Her eyes were glued on the tarmac below. “Yes?” she answered conversationally, like she didn’t know what he was requesting of her.  

His voice was next to her ear now. “I told you I would stay until you were ready. I meant it. I promise I will not leave your side until you are ready for me to go.” Warm fingers slipped into her own and squeezed once but were gone before she could even register them. 

She let out a long, shaky breath, “Okay.” 

Stretching across the tarmac stood a line of men and women in what she assumed was military dress. They stood at attention, to her seemingly waiting for something. Was she supposed to order them at ease? Why were they just standing there? It was making her nervous. As they walked past them, Belle slowed to a stop in front of them, balanced on one heel and wobbly bent her knees. 

Gold leaned over her shoulder, “ _ What _ are you doing?” he murmured. 

“I don’t know,” she hissed from her half-bow, “curtsying at everyone!”

“You don’t curtsy to  _ them _ ,” he told her slowly, “they bow and curtsy to  _ you _ .” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” she was stuck in her failed curtsy.   

“Besides never do that again? Stand up. Walk to the helicopter,” he instructed. One waited on the other side of the tarmac. “It’s time to go meet your father.”


End file.
